


The Usual

by AHumanFemale, Robin Hood (kjack89)



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bartender Carisi, Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 16:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12016410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHumanFemale/pseuds/AHumanFemale, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/Robin%20Hood
Summary: “Here you go,” the bartender says, setting a glass of amber liquid down in front of him. “I made it a double. You look like you need it.”Barba snorts a laugh and raises the glass in a wordless toast, taking a cautious sip. It's better than he expected, smooth for a single malt with the perfect peaty flavor. “Good choice…” he says, trailing off, realizing he doesn't know the bartender’s name.The bartender’s smile widens. “Sonny,” he says. “Sonny Carisi.”





	The Usual

**Author's Note:**

> AHumanFemale wanted to include the following note: The best parts of this belong to Robin and I have no idea why I was invited.
> 
> Robin Hood wanted to include the following note: The best parts of this come straight from AHF and frankly you could get rid of what I wrote and probably no one would care.
> 
> What we can agree on is that we are equally at fault for any typos. 
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

It isn't Barba's type of bar. Barba prefers quieter, smaller places with dark oak paneling and a bartender generous with his scotch pours. Somewhere he was guaranteed privacy save for the occasional refill.  But it’s someone's birthday or something and Liv insisted that he join them for a drink, so here he stands, in a sleek, modern bar nestled on the top floor of a sleeker, more modern building.  The furniture is gleaming black leather, the bar lit more with city lights from an impressive view rather than any light fixtures inside. It's lost on him, of course. Rafael can only notice his own regret at agreeing to this outing in the first place.

Liv waves him over to the bar, surrounded by her officers all laughing and sharing stories, and he reluctantly joins them, every fiber of his being protesting against the floor-to-ceiling windows and the fancy, almost assuredly uncomfortable bar stools.

“Counselor,” Liv says warmly as he slides onto the stool next to her. “Glad you could make it.”

Barba shrugs with a wan smile and reaches up to loosen his tie even further. He's just about to offer a vague birthday greeting to the assembled detectives when a grating Staten Island accent interrupts with a cheerful, “What can I get for ya?”

Barba turns to the bartender and is greeted by the sight of dimples, and blue eyes, and a black Henley that hugs the narrow v of a very appealing chest. The fabric is stretched taut across broad shoulders, the pale column of his throat a tantalizing glimpse of flesh on an otherwise modestly clothed body. Barba’s mouth goes dry, and not just because he needs a drink. “Scotch,” he manages, a little hoarsely. “Single malt, neat.”

The bartender nods, one perfect curl escaping his gel-laden coif of hair, and Barba tries not to stare. “Any brand preference?”

“Surprise me.”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and while Barba's normally pretty picky about his scotch, whatever he ends up getting will be worth it for the sight of those dimples deepening as the bartender grins at him.

He turns to pour Barba’s drink and Barba forces himself to look away, to at least pretend to listen while Rollins and Fin joke about their latest case, already a few drinks deep by the time he got there, but he keeps getting distracted by the way the bartender’s dark wash jeans sit on his narrow hips. When the bartender turns back around, Barba quickly looks away, pretending that he wasn't just staring at a perfect stranger’s perfect ass.

“Here you go,” the bartender says, setting a glass of amber liquid down in front of him. “I made it a double. You look like you need it.”

Barba snorts a laugh and raises the glass in a wordless toast, taking a cautious sip. It's better than he expected, smooth for a single malt with the perfect peaty flavor. “Good choice…” he says, trailing off, realizing he doesn't know the bartender’s name.

The bartender’s smile widens. “Sonny,” he says. “Sonny Carisi.”

“Rafael Barba,” Barba returns, taking another sip of scotch.

“Did I hear your colleagues here refer to you as ‘counselor’?” Sonny asks. “Are you a lawyer?”

Barba makes a small noise of agreement. “Something like that, anyway.”

“Don't let his modesty fool you,” Liv interjects with a warmth almost certainly borne from the almost empty glass of red wine in front of her. “Barba’s one of the best ADAs we’ve worked with.”

Sonny gives Barba an appraising look that warms him from somewhere low in his gut but doesn't comment, instead asking the detectives, “Another round for New York’s finest?”

“What the hell,” Fin says with a shrug, finishing his beer. “We’re celebrating.”

Sonny nods and gets drinks for the detectives before leaning against the bar across from Barba.  He fights the urge to lean in as well, if for no other reason than to be closer. “So, a lawyer,” he says neutrally, obviously trying to tamp down his interest.  

Barba rolls his eyes, assuming where this conversation is going. “Yes, and you can spare me all the jokes about vampires, leeches, vultures, etcetera. Not much new material there with which to impress me.”

Sonny flashes him a dimpled grin. “Actually, I was gonna tell you that I'm in law school. At Fordham.”

Barba raises an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “Do you intend on going into criminal or civil law?”

“Criminal,” Sonny says decisively.

Barba snorts. “Go into civil,” he advises frankly, taking another gulp of scotch. “You make a lot more money in civil, and are tempted to drown yourself in alcohol less.”

“You seem to do pretty well for yourself, Counselor,” Sonny says, nodding toward Barba’s bespoke suit. He chooses to pretend he doesn't preen under the attention, Sonny's eyes on him a welcome event. Instead Barba makes a face.  

“Only by temporarily selling my soul to the dark side straight out of law school, though I got back on the path towards righteousness before too long. Besides,” he adds, his expression twisting into something like sardonic amusement, “I’m still sitting in a bar drinking on a Tuesday.”

“So are we,” Rollins points out, propping herself up on the bar as she gives Barba a look. “What're you implying, Counselor?”

Fin snorts. “That we’re lushes, and in your case, he ain't wrong.” He stands. “C’mon, Amanda. Let's split a cab.”

As Amanda rolls her eyes but reluctantly follows Fin out of the bar, Barba turns back to Sonny. “Are you intending on working for the prosecution or going over to the dark side?”

Sonny hesitates. “I know what you want my answer to be, obviously,” he says, his voice even, “but, uh, we had a guest speaker in class not too long ago — Bayard Ellis, I dunno if you know him.”

“Oh, we go way back,” Liv says, with an unreadable smile, but Sonny just nods.

“Right, so, the kind of stuff he does — Project Innocence and all — I’d really like to be a part of something like that. Getting justice for people who’ve been unfairly treated, you know?”

Barba rolls his eyes and drains his scotch. “So not only do you want to be a defense attorney, but you want to be the kind of defense attorney that doesn’t even make any money?” He shakes his head. “You’re better off going into civil law. Trust me.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Counselor,” Sonny says with an easy grin, clearly not offended by Barba’s caustic words. “But you talk like the paycheck is all I'm after and I'm pretty sure you'd be the first to tell me that the job isn't worth the money.” Rafael looks up, surprised, and Sonny just smiles. “Who knows, maybe one day we’ll face off against each other in court.”

Barba examines him appraisingly, his comeback dying on his lips because if the sight of Sonny in jeans and a Henley has been enough to keep him suitably distracted all evening, he can’t even imagine what it’d be like to see him in a suit. “Who knows,” he says, suddenly wishing he had more scotch left. “Maybe.”

Sonny’s still grinning at him and as absurd as the thought is, Barba doesn’t want to tear his eyes away, but Olivia touches his arm. “Walk me out?” she asks easily, and Barba can’t really think of a good excuse not to.

“Of course.” Barba stands and glances back at Sonny as he digs his wallet out to pay for his drink. “What do I owe you?”

“Promise me you’ll come by again and help me with my law school homework and it’s on the house,” Sonny says, something eager in his expression, and for a moment, Barba’s almost tempted to take him up on the offer.

But that would take him down a dangerous road, and the last thing Barba needs right now is to get involved with a bartender who’s at least ten years — if not more — his junior.

Instead, he pulls a twenty out of his wallet and sets it on the bar. “Next time I’m in, I promise I’m all yours for as much help as you need,” he says. “Goodnight, Sonny.”

It’s an easy promise to make, seeing as how he has no intention of coming back — even if the view is terrific and the company is surprisingly engaging.  

As he walks Liv to the elevators, he asks in what he hopes is a casual way, “Whose idea was it to come here, anyway?”

“Why?” Olivia asks, with a far-too-knowing smile. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Barba just rolls his eyes.

“Not enough to come back,” he says, with an air of finality.

* * *

 

Not even two weeks later, Barba comes back.

Look, he’s had a shitty day in court trying to prosecute an even shittier case, and after a few drinks at one of his usual haunts, is it his fault that his feet stumbled this way of their own accord? Even if accidentally stumbling in the direction of the bar takes him several blocks out of the way of his apartment?

He realizes when he’s in the elevator that he doesn’t even know if Sonny’s working that night.

He realizes that he’s apparently had just enough to drink that he’s no longer bothering to deny it to himself that he’s just here to see the hot bartender.

Christ, he needs another drink.

Either Barba’s cashing in on whatever luck he still has remaining or else he’s just been handed definitive proof that there is a God, because he gets off the elevator to see a familiar figure pouring beer at the bar, and Barba would be lying if he said his heart didn’t skip a beat.

He quashes the feeling almost instantly as he makes his way to the bar, because he is a 45-year-old man and a successful prosecutor and 45-year-old successful prosecutors do _not_ get crushes on handsome young bartenders with blue eyes who look at him like he's brilliant. He just won’t stand for it.

So instead he sits down on a bar stool, jacket off and sleeves rolled. Hands clasped on the bar in front of him.

And Sonny looks over at him and grins in recognition. “Hey, Counselor,” he calls, finishing the draft beer he’s pouring and setting it down in front of another patron. “Be with you in a minute.”

“Take your time,” Barba says, loosening his already-loose tie and thoroughly determined to enjoy the view for as long as possible while Sonny moves around the bar.

He’s wearing a red Henley today.

It almost looks better than the black one did.

When Sonny finally heads over to Barba, he’s already got a glass of scotch in hand and, ok, that’s certainly not going to help Barba’s ridiculous non-crush at all. Neither will the casual raking of Sonny’s gaze over him as he approaches.

“My hero,” he says dryly, taking the scotch from Sonny and pounding it in one go.

Sonny raises an eyebrow as he looks carefully at Barba. “Bad day?” he asks, taking the glass back and going to refill it without Barba even needing to ask.

At this rate, Barba’s definitely going to fall in love with him.

“Bad day,” he confirms, taking the refilled glass from Sonny and taking a sip this time, which Sonny looks relieved to see.

“Wanna tell me about it?” Sonny asks.

Barba shakes his head. “Trust me, you don’t want to hear about this,” he says dismissively.

“Course I do,” Sonny says, before adding with a smile, “Besides, I’m a bartender. It’s practically in my job description.”

Barba considers that for a moment and takes a gulp of scotch before saying, keeping his voice as light as possible, “I was in court for almost eight hours today trying to convince what may end up being New York’s dumbest jury that an uncle raped his fourteen-year-old niece.”

Sonny goes very still, his grip on the glass he was ostensibly cleaning so tight that his knuckles go white. “The jury doesn’t believe you?’ he asks quietly.

Shrugging, Barba lifts his glass to his lips without actually drinking from it. “DNA evidence was thrown out,” he says, “so it’s basically down to the girl’s word against her uncle’s.”

“She ok?” Sonny asks, before clarifying, “The girl? I can’t imagine what that’d be like, not only going through that, but having to testify against that monster…”

His tone and words are so similar to what Liv had said earlier in the day that Barba almost smiles. “You ever think about being a cop?” he asks, taking a sip of scotch. “You’ve got the protective instincts down.”

Sonny shakes his head. “Nah,” he says off-handedly. “If I’d arrested this guy, I’d’ve ended up breaking his fingers trying to fingerprint him or something even worse and probably get kicked off the force.”

Barba snorts. “It takes more than that to get kicked off the force,” he mutters.

He drains his scotch and looks expectantly at Sonny, who rolls his eyes. “Don’t blame me for the hangover you’ll wake up with tomorrow,” he warns, turning to grab the bottle off the shelf and pouring Barba another two fingers of scotch.

Barba rolls his eyes. “Still want to be a defense attorney?” he asks, a little grimly.

Sonny rolls his eyes as well but is saved from answering by another patron sitting down at the bar. While Sonny’s making her drink, Barba traces an idle finger around the rim of his glass, watching Sonny work, noticing a knot of tension in Sonny’s shoulder and a furrow in his brow that wasn’t there before.

He feels bad.

 _Guilty_.

He feels guilty.

He’s come to this bar to try to get away from all the work crap. To ogle a hot, friendly bartender and chase away his sorrows with the burn of good scotch, and instead he’s managed to do the opposite. He's managed not only to further depress himself but also the hot, friendly bartender who now walks around with Barba’s troubles weighing on his shoulders in addition to his own.  

When Sonny returns, Barba opens his mouth to apologize, or something, but Sonny beats him to it, a genuine smile back on his face. “So your day was shitty,” he says briskly, “Which means you need cheering up. Wanna hear about the time I was almost arrested for harboring a fugitive?”

Barba chokes on his sip of scotch. “Harboring a fugitive?” he repeats, incredulous. “When did that happen? _How_ did that happen?”

Sonny grins.

“About a week and a half ago,” he says nonchalantly, playing coy and ignoring the look on Barba’s face. “It was pretty quiet for a Thursday evening, just me and a coupla regulars, right? And one of the guys goes to the bathroom, whatever, but not even thirty seconds after he’s gone, SWAT bursts in looking for him—”

“ESU,” Barba corrects automatically. “NYPD SWAT is called ESU.”

“Right, so SWAT bursts in,” Sonny continues doggedly, “And they’re like, put your hands up and get down on the floor, and do you know how hard it is to keep your hands up while also trying to get down? Cuz it’s really difficult, ok?”

Barba laughs at the image of Sonny trying to figure out how to do both simultaneously and Sonny’s grin softens at the sound. “So anyway, turns out they’re after the guy in the bathroom…”

He keeps rambling and Barba’s content just to listen to the rise and fall of Sonny’s voice as he tells the rest of the story, about ESU threatening to kick down the bathroom door and demanding Sonny give them the key, about how Sonny couldn’t find the key and ESU threatening to arrest him, about Sonny temporarily panicking that he’s going to end up in jail for something so stupid.

As Sonny talks, Barba can feel the weight on him lift, lightening with each laugh that Sonny gets out of him, and by the time Sonny finishes the story, Barba feels a warmth unrelated to the scotch curling through his belly. He finishes his scotch and sets the glass down on the bar. “Another?” Sonny asks.

“No, I’m good,” Barba says, glancing at the clock above the bar, surprised by how late it is. “I should get home anyway.” He smiles slightly at Sonny. “Thanks for the story. I needed that.”

“Anytime, Counselor,” Sonny says with an easy grin, not at all hiding the fact that the story was less about the telling and more about making Barba laugh. “And next time, I really am gonna make you help me with my homework. And before you make that face, you did promise.”

Barba rolls his eyes despite himself. “I knew I’d regret that,” he says wryly. “Goodnight, Sonny.”

As he turns to leave, Sonny calls after him, “Hey, Mr. Barba!” Barba turns back toward the bar and raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “I asked a couple of my professors about you.”

“Checking up on me?” Barba asks, amused and maybe a little more flattered than he should have been without the alcohol humming in his bloodstream.

“Something like that,” Sonny admits, still grinning. “But, uh, is it true that you let a rapist strangle you with a belt in open court?”

Barba rolls his eyes again. “Glad to see that the gossip mill at Fordham is still working,” he says. “If I can offer you any advice in your legal studies, it’s don’t believe everything you hear.”

Sonny looks disappointed for a moment and nods, picking up a cloth to start wiping down the bar, though he looks up again sharply when Barba casually adds, “I didn’t _let_ him strangle me. I _made_ him strangle me.”

He smirks at the look on Sonny’s face and leaves without another word.

That way, if he never makes it back to the bar, he won’t ruin whatever image he left in Sonny’s head.

* * *

 

But Barba does make it back, often enough that he should probably be worried about it becoming a habit.

Often enough that he’s memorized the sight of Sonny’s smile whenever he walks in.

Often enough that he’s pretty sure he’s seen all five shirts that Sonny owns at least twice (or at least, the ones he wears on rotation for working in the bar).

Often enough that when Rita Calhoun asks if he wants to meet up for drinks, he suggests the bar without even thinking about it.

Now he’s sitting at the bar waiting for her to get there and panicking internally, because if there’s anyone who can see right through him, it’s Rita. And the last thing he wants is for her to take one look at Sonny and _know_ how utterly pathetic Barba is.  

Because he is. He is pathetic, because even with an undercurrent of anxiety and the promise of trouble with Rita he still manages to find himself looking forward to seeing the man. Yearns for it, as though seeing him is the only cure for whatever ailment Barba has managed to find spreading beneath his ribs rather than the cause.

As per usual, Sonny greets him with his usual smile and his usual drink, and Barba takes a sip before telling him, “I also need a vodka martini, extra dry, extra dirty.” At Sonny’s quirked eyebrow, he adds, a little defensively, “I have a friend joining me.”

“Ah,” Sonny says, nodding once, his expression unreadable. “Any vodka preference?”

Barba glances at the shelf of vodka behind the bar.

“Personally, I’d tell you to give her well vodka, since I’m the one paying for her drink,” he muses sarcastically, “But she’d probably take it out on you if I did, so whatever you recommend that’s not absurdly expensive.”

Sonny nods and turns to make the drink while Barba takes a gulp of his own.

Maybe Rita won’t notice anything.

Maybe Rita will be too fired up over the fact that her client refused to take the plea deal Barba offered, against Rita’s advice. Or maybe Rita will notice, and just not mention anything.

Barba snorts.

If only he could be that lucky.

Sonny returns not too long after with Rita’s martini in one hand and a shot in the other. “This is for you,” he says, setting the shot in front of Barba, who looks from it to Sonny, confused. “The guy in the blue jacket at the far end of the bar bought it for you.”

Barba glances over at who Sonny’s talking about, at a cute if generic-looking Wall Street type with a few friends. Barba nods his thanks and picks the shot up and downs it, making a face as he turns back to Sonny, who looks amused.

“I think he was hoping you would join him to take the shot,” he points out gently, as though it may not have occurred to Barba.

“He can hope all he wants,” Barba replies, picking up his scotch to chase the burn of mediocre tequila from his mouth, well aware that the biggest reason he didn’t do just that was the man standing behind the bar in front of him.

Sonny nods slowly. “Not into guys?” he asks in what he clearly thinks is a casual way.

Barba gives him a look.

“Not into him,” he corrects. Probably about as casual as Sonny, if his wide smile is anything to go by.

“Not your type?” he asks.

Before Barba can answer, they’re interrupted by Rita, who looks less than impressed as she slides onto the barstool next to him. “Why in the world would you choose this bar, Rafael?” she asks in lieu of a greeting. “Do you know how much I paid in cab fare just to get here?”

“Always charming to see you, too, Rita,” Barba says dryly, sliding the martini over to her. “Here, this should take the edge off. I had Sonny make it just how you like it.”

Rita takes an appraising sip and nods her approval before glancing Sonny up and down, realization dawning on her face. “And now I see why you picked this place of all places,” she says sweetly. “You’re here for the Italian Stallion.”

Barba is mortified. “Rita,” he hisses, as Sonny’s eyebrows inch up towards his hairline, though he at least has the decency to hold in his laugh and pretend like he didn’t just hear what she said.

But Rita just winks at Sonny. “Be careful,” she warns him, taking another sip of her martini. “Ten, fifteen years ago, you would have been just his type. Back when he was still drinking — what was it you used to drink, Rafael? Something fruity with a little paper umbrella in it, wasn’t it?”

Now Sonny didn’t bother hiding his laugh as he looks at Barba. “A paper umbrella?” he asks, as Barba turns crimson.

“Remind me why we’re friends again,” he tells Rita, draining his scotch and pointedly turning away from Sonny, who is still grinning at him.

When Sonny sets Barba’s next glass of scotch down in front of him, he’s stuck a paper umbrella in the glass, and Barba glares daggers at him. "Keep this up and you're in danger of losing your tip," he warns.

Sonny shrugs.

"I'll take my chances,” he says and raises an eyebrow at Barba, who is certainly not pleased with this show of easy confidence or the way teasing seemed to light Sonny up from the inside out.

“So,” Sonny starts again, pulling Barba out of his head. “I _used_ to be your type?"

Barba chokes on the sip of scotch still resting on his tongue and pretends not to notice it when Sonny flushes in amusement. Neither does he notice the extra strut in Sonny’s walk as he works, the extra knowing glances Sonny shoots his way when he thinks he's not looking.

He’s going to kill Rita.

* * *

 

After the _incident_ with Rita, Barba tries to take a break from the bar but he finds eating dinner and drinking by himself at Forlini’s is suddenly much lonelier than it ever used to be. He's horrified to realize that even scotch doesn’t taste as good when it’s not served with a side of blue eyes and broad shoulders and dimples that get just a little deeper when Barba walks through the door.

So he breezes back into Sonny’s bar and makes no excuses for his absence, merely accepting the scotch and ready smile from Sonny and tries not to think about how much this feels like coming home.

How nice it feels to sit on the same stool night after night.

How nice it feels to discuss the finer points of the law with an eager audience, one who listens, enraptured, to all of Barba’s long-winded explanations of various motions and cases.  Mostly his own. Mostly his victories because he can’t help but brag to someone who sometimes jots notes down on the bar napkins when he finds something Barba said particularly enthralling.  

How nice it is to listen to Sonny tell him stories about the other patrons in the bar on the days when Barba doesn’t want to talk about work, even though he’s pretty sure Sonny makes some of the details up just to make him laugh.

How nice it is to just sit and watch Sonny, sleeves rolled to his elbows, as he wipes up the bar. He loves watching those forearms move back and forth as the man cleans.

He really is pathetic.

A fact that is proven beyond reasonable doubt one evening when he walks into the bar to find an unfamiliar bartender behind the bar, and Sonny nowhere in sight. For a moment, Barba wonders if he’s there on the wrong day, remembering far too well the Wednesday evenings when Sonny’s off work and Barba sits alone in his apartment.

And _that’s_ a thought he’s literally never going to admit out loud to another human being.

But it’s not the wrong day, and yet Sonny’s not there, and Barba feels like a complete idiot because he’s just standing there, one step off of the elevators staring at the bar and debating over turning back around and leaving.

He feels like an idiot.

He is an idiot.

His decision is seemingly made for him when the elevator door _dings_ open behind him, and he turns and runs smack into Sonny.

Tall, lean Sonny.

Tall, lean Sonny who has more muscle than he expected.

Tall, lean Sonny who smells like pine soap and the vague sweetness of cologne.  

“Leaving so soon?” Sonny asks, reaching out automatically to steady Barba, his usual grin somehow more ebullient than normal. Said grin does nothing to improve Barba’s steadiness, not when the sight of it and the feel of Sonny’s hand on his elbow makes him flash hot and his blood stir. “No need to rush off on my account, Counselor.”

“I, uh, I—” Barba starts, realizing a little too late that he has no good explanation for why he was about to leave. Luckily, Sonny’s not really listening, ushering him towards the bar with a warm hand just a little too low on his back in a way that makes him want to lean into it.  

“Sorry I’m late,” Sonny says, still grinning. “I switched shifts with Nicky cuz, uh, my sister had her baby!”

Barba vaguely remembers Sonny telling him that his younger sibling was expecting a child during the long-ranging story of Sonny’s entire extended family one night when Barba was just tipsy enough to think discussing their families was a good life choice. He also remembers that this is the first of any of his sisters to have a kid, and he manages a smile.

“Congratulations, Sonny,” he says as warmly as he can muster, considering how he feels about children. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Sonny glances up at the clock. “I really shouldn’t,” he hedges. “My shift’s almost started, and I’m not supposed to drink on the clock.”

“Come on,” Barba says, giving him a grin that perfectly telegraphs how persuasive he's willing to be on this. “It’s not every day you become an uncle.”

And it’s not every day that Barba makes a damn fool of himself over a man, so he figures they both deserve a drink.

Sonny practically beams at being called an uncle and makes no further protest, just accepting the shot of tequila that Barba passes him and raises it in a toast. Barba makes a mental note that sentimentality is likely to win Sonny over in just about everything and tries not to like that about him.

“Cheers,” Sonny says, suddenly hoarse, and as he clinks his shot glass against Barba’s, he adds in a smaller voice than he's heard from him before, “I’m really glad you’re here to celebrate with me.”

“Yeah,” Barba says, trying not the stare at the line of Sonny’s throat as he shoots the tequila. “So am I.”

* * *

 

What was supposed to be a very late night drink with the entire squad after a particularly grueling case somehow turns into just Barba and Rollins. Liv has some conflict with her babysitter, and truthfully, Barba’s not sure what Fin’s excuse is. But Rollins is still game, and even suggests Barba’s bar — _Sonny’s_ bar — without prompting.

For a moment, Barba makes the mistake of thinking he’s finally had a break of good luck.

But then, from the moment Sonny greets them when they walk in with a cheerful, “Hey, Counselor”, Barba knows he’s screwed. Rollins gets this _grin_ on her face as she glances from Sonny back to Barba, a grin that looks like it’s about one step away from a gleeful cackle, and as she sits down at the otherwise empty bar next to Barba, she asks, a little too loudly, “So Counselor, you been seeing anyone lately?”

And of course, Sonny’s just walked over with Barba’s usual scotch in hand, and he lingers just a little too long after setting the drink down for Barba to imagine that he hasn’t heard the question. He's torn between annoyance at Rollins’ meddling and pleasure with Sonny’s interest.  

“Not currently,” Barba tells her, a warning edge to his voice. “What about _your_ love life, Detective? Anything exciting to share?”

Rollins ignores him, instead giving her best, most Southern Belle smile to Sonny, who suddenly looks a little bit like a deer caught in the headlights.

“It’s Sonny, right?” Rollins asks brightly, and if Sonny finds it at all odd that she remembers his name some eight weeks after initially meeting him, he doesn’t say anything, just nods silently. “What about you, Sonny?” she asks, fluttering her eyelashes at him. “You seein’ anyone?”

“Uh, no, not really,” Sonny mutters, the back of his neck flushing red, and he hurriedly changes the subject. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Well, that depends,” Rollins says. “What would you recommend?”

Sonny shrugs and gives her an easy smile, and Barba tries to ignore the sudden flash of jealousy that Sonny’s turned that smile on someone else. “Depends on what you’re in the mood for.”

Rollins lets out a little hum in agreement, her smile widening. “I’m in the mood for matchmaking,” she says, and Barba makes a mental note that his first order of business really needs to be finding new people to associate with in public. Preferably as soon as possible. Preferably after moving to another borough and changing his name.

Now Sonny’s entire face is flushed red, and Barba endeavors to save him from Rollins’ particular brand of torture. The fact that he was saving himself as well shouldn't count against him.

“Bring her a boilermaker,” he says. “And make the shot a double.”

Sonny all but flees to get her drink and Barba glares at Rollins. “I would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t alienate the bartender here,” he says in an undertone. “I would hate to have to find a new bar.”

“The bartender?” Rollins repeats, smirking. “You sure you don’t want to call him something else?”

“Like what?” Barba asks blankly. “Sonny?”

“I was thinkin’ more like ‘boyfriend’.”

Barba is saved from having to respond by Sonny reappearing, beer and shot in hand, which he deposits in front of Rollins before making as if to disappear again. Rollins beats him to the punch. “So Sonny, is there a rule against bartenders asking bar patrons out on a date?”

Christ.

Sonny turns an even darker shade of red and he jerks a shrug, grabbing a rag and starting to wipe down the bar with a little more force than probably required. Barba sympathizes but has nothing to clean, leaving him to drink instead. Sonny’s on his own.  

“Uh, not really a rule,” he mutters. “But, uh, not really advised, either. Don’t want to make a good customer uncomfortable if they’re, you know, not interested. Or whatever.”

 _Not interested?_ Barba marvels.  

And here he thought Sonny was relatively intelligent.  

“Uh huh,” Rollins says, disbelief clear in her voice. “And if the customer is very obviously interested?”

_Sweet angel of Death, take me now._

Sonny shrugs again, focusing intently on the bar even though he’s been wiping the same exact spot for the past minute. He answers without looking up, the measured nonchalance entirely transparent to two individuals who read people for a living.  

“Then he probably has a good reason why he hasn’t said anything himself.”

Rollins turns and arches an eyebrow at Barba, who is currently contemplating crawling under the bar and dying of embarrassment. Or typhoid, or consumption, or the plague. Whatever he manages to find down there would be fine so long as it was quick and less painful than this.

“So Counselor, _do_ you have a good reason?”

Damn Rollins.

The plague doesn't move nearly fast enough.

There are many ways that Barba could walk this back, could deflect, could obfuscate. It would be believable, it would sound genuine and come across as effortless. This is what he does for a living, after all. But then again, when it comes right down to it… he doesn’t have a good reason. Hasn't had a good reason for any of this, for why he came back the first time around to why he’s still sitting here today, red-faced and squirming in his seat.

No good reason except for the man in front of him.

The man he's wanted to just grab and kiss for weeks now, before he has the sense to talk himself out of it.

The man who's made him smile and laugh more over the last few months than he has in the last few years, who is smart and gorgeous and everything Barba never even knew he was looking for until it was serving him a double.

The man who’s gone very still, clearly waiting for his answer. Holding his breath, even, like the answer was something more vital to him than air.

What the hell.

Barba drains his scotch and looks at Sonny squarely but not without affection, always softened by his presence whether he likes it or not. “Would you like to get a drink with me, Sonny?” he asks firmly, before he can lose what little nerve he has.

“I’ve told you before, Counselor, I’m not allowed to drink on the job,” Sonny says emphatically, ever so slightly under his breath, and both Rollins and Barba give him an incredulous look.

Rollins glances at Barba and shrugs in a way that seems to suggest Sonny is Barba’s problem to deal with, downing her shot, and Barba sighs before looking back at Sonny.

“Somewhere other than here,” he says with a deadpan stare.

Sonny opens his mouth and closes it again before glancing up at the clock and looking back at Barba, a grin slowly spreading across his face. “Last call is in twenty minutes, if you wanna go somewhere after that.”

“I think I can manage to wait twenty minutes,” Barba allows with a smirk. He’s a patient man, after all.

When he has good reason to be.

Besides, that gives him the next twenty minutes to watch Sonny in that tight black Henley and an apron tied low on his hips while he cleans and finishes prepping for tomorrow’s shift. Twenty minutes to marvel at himself for the stunt he’d just pulled, smug now that he’s succeeded in getting a date with the man who’d occupied every other of his thoughts for months.

It also gives him twenty minutes to pointedly ignore Rollins’ gloating looks.

He may owe her a drink after this, but it doesn’t mean he has to acknowledge her role in this quite yet. If ever. Perhaps a kind footnote in his memoir, published long after he’s moved up the ladder and no longer has to deal with her knowing gaze every time they see each other.  

And speaking of gazes…

Sonny is doing some admiring of his own.

Painfully blue eyes seeking him out over the gleaming black of the bar, staring as though he was having a hard time realizing what had just happened. As though Barba was the only thing worth looking at in the room, even with the Manhattan skyline twinkling bright behind him. Barba does his best to behave, to avoid provocation, but his patience has limits and he can only watch Sonny lick his lower lip so many times before something snaps.

Finally, the drag of the clock seeming unbearably slow, Sonny tosses his rag into the sink and sends a furtive glance in his direction. Something warm, something eager, which is all it takes for Barba’s patience to run out.

“Rollins, get out,” Barba says, as Sonny comes around the front of the bar. When Rollins just gives him a look, her beer still half full in front of her, Barba turns and tells her pleasantly, “Unless you’re intending on joining in, Detective, I don’t think we require an audience.”

Sonny stares, full lips open in surprise. Rollins rolls her eyes but nonetheless drains her beer and stands.

Sonny, in a show of chivalry that Barba honestly should’ve expected, escorts her to the elevator. “Have a good night, Detective,” he says, no sign of strain in his voice, and Barba has to give him credit for that. “Give that adorable baby of yours a kiss from me.”

“I will,” Rollins says, before shooting both Sonny and Barba a smirk. “I’d tell y’all to behave, but…”

The elevator door slides closed, cutting off her shit-eating grin, and Sonny fumbles for a moment with his keys before locking something on the elevator control panel, assumedly to stop the elevator from making its way back up to the bar floor.

Then he turns back to Barba and looks at him expectantly, pointed and knowing even as his breathing grows short.

“Was that really necessary?” Sonny asks from across the room, long legs bringing him closer much slower than Barba would have preferred.  

He answers with a smirk as he leans against the bar, drink in hand.  

“I think so. I’m planning on us being naked in the next five minutes,” he says once the scotch in his glass has warmed his blood and the stars in Sonny’s eyes have started his heart on its climb. “Unless of course you prefer an audience.”

Sonny snorts, lopsided smile betraying his amusement.  

“Yeah, I’m alright,” he says as he makes his way over to him. “Maybe next time.”

“Next time?” Barba asks playfully, as though they both didn’t know there was going to be a next time.  And a time after that and a time after that…

“Mmm,” Sonny says in reply, sidling up close.  Close enough for his slender fingers to toy at Rafael’s side, to trace the slope of his hip. His head dips down, their lips only millimeters apart.  

Rafael is long to die long before he ever gets a finger on Sonny Carisi.

“Hey, Counselor,” Sonny starts, voice rough while his fingers dance atop Rafael’s belt.  

“Yes.”

It doesn’t matter the question. The request, the comment. The answer would be yes.  

“Come here often?” he finishes and Rafael huffs a surprised laugh.

“No,” he replies sarcastically, “Not at all.”

Sonny grins.

“Do you want to?”

Barba rolls his eyes but his annoyance is cut short by a quick press of lips.  

Fleeting, teasing.  

Something brief and flirtatious that Barba can only imagine is the Sonny Carisi special, at least until he seems to find his footing and backs Barba against the bar with a strength only hinted at the night Barba had run straight into his arms. Hands cradling his jaw, towering over him while the bar stools fall on either side of them and the edge of the bar itself digs into his back. Sonny kisses him like he can’t help himself, antagonized or possessed or so goddamn determined that all of his next breaths should come from directly from Barba’s lungs that he can’t stop himself.  

It’s possible he’s never been kissed this way his entire life.

He wants to be kissed like this every day.

When Sonny finally pulls away Barba’s heart is racing, his ears are buzzing, eyes glued to Sonny’s lips.  

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” Sonny asks him, voice low and soft rather than the rough growl Barba had been expecting after a kiss like that.  

That’s the moment Barba knows. He can see it written across Sonny’s face, clear as day for him and all the world to see.

Sonny also knows what it’s like to sit and count down the hours and minutes and seconds until this elevator would bring him up to work, until he would see the one face in a sea of them that makes his heart beat a little faster. Sonny knows what it’s like to hate Wednesdays, to replay every second of their hours-long conversations back for hours on end so he can smile and laugh all over again.

Barba feels the same.

Barba feels the same agonizing crawl of the clock as court drags on, the same muted resentment of Wednesdays because Barba knew that meant Sonny would be unavailable to him. The heady flash of _something_ in his system when he comes inside and is met with the same dimpled grin and an offer of, “The usual, Counselor?”

“I know,” Barba replies softly, because he does.  

And maybe he should take him home. Maybe he should take him on an actual date, because he doesn't want the man in front of him to think he's meaningless. Or that Rafael is here for anything other than a beginning. But Sonny’s grip is strong on either side of his face and it looks like he knows. Barba’s impeccable poker face is wasted on Sonny, who can read him like a well-worn favorite book. Effortlessly, half memory and half intuition. Better than people who’ve known him for years.

They've had dates.  Dozens of them.

This is long overdue.

Barba is pulled from his thoughts by Sonny telling him, voice pitched low and smile far too soft to be a smirk, "It's been five minutes, Counselor."

Barba blinks at him, confused. "And?"

"And neither of us is naked yet."

Barba's eyes darken.

Yes.

 _Long_ overdue.  

Sonny sees it, he always does.  

He sees the moment Barba decides they’re not going anywhere after all. His eyes go wide and his pupils dilate, his grip on Barba tightens. The kiss he ducks down for is less teasing and flirtatious than it is something ravenous. Lips and tongue and straight teeth capturing the swell of Barba’s bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth so possessively that Barba has no choice but to cant his hips up and groan his approval into the thick air between them. Barba keeps his hands on Sonny’s hips, dragging him closer. Holding him tight even as the sounds he makes seem more like pleas for more than orders to stay. Sonny drinks his pained sighs like a man dying of thirst, takes from him everything Barba offers up and more.  

When their lips part and Sonny backs away, Rafael follows him for a second or two before realizing that Sonny is too far away to continue their kiss. He watches as Sonny takes a few steps backwards, silhouetted in the lights from the skyline beyond the glass. Tall and lithe, all broad shoulders and narrow hips and muscled chest Barba is dying to set his teeth to. His black shirt and dark jeans blend him into the shadows but Barba can still make out the hard line of his erection in the whispers of light through the windows. He flashes hot, lust simmering in every blink and every breath that passes between his lips.  

Barba watches, enraptured, while Sonny makes his way across the room to claim the middle seat of a wide leather couch.  

Something suitably fashionable, built low to the ground and deep enough to keep patrons cocooned inside. Sonny sits back and spreads his knees, one arm casually draped across the back while the other rests on the top of his thigh. He pats that thigh casually, facing Barba with a knowing smirk.  

“Come here, Rafael,” he suggests darkly and Barba has never been so hard in his _life._ He’s also never wanted to obey anyone more than he does in that moment, but Barba is nothing if not antagonistic so he stays, feigning reluctance.  Back against the bar, the taste of Sonny still blatant on his tongue.

“I don’t come on command,” he says instead, eyes leveled on Sonny even as his traitorous right foot takes one step forward.  

“No?” Sonny asks playfully, watching as he takes another step.

“No.”

Sonny smirks, the edge of his teeth just visible in the low light.

“Yeah, well. We’ll see about that,” he tells him and the easy confidence hiding beneath the energetic exterior was going to fucking ruin him.  Barba responds shamelessly, giving in to the impulse to get close while giving up the pretense of doing so on his own time. He covers the ground intently, resenting every inch of space between them.

He stops only when he’s standing between Sonny’s knees, eyes unblinking as they hold Sonny’s.

“Come here, Sonny,” he says in little more than a grating whisper and while Barba has to struggle for obedience Sonny seems to have it bred into him, sitting up straight on the edge of the seat with hardly more than a suggestion. Close enough for Barba to reach out and touch him, to run his fingers through the gelled coif that complemented Sonny’s tall figure and chiseled jaw so perfectly.  

Sonny melts under his touch, hands finding the meat of Barba’s thighs even while his eyes start to flutter closed.  

“I’ve wanted to do that for months,” he confesses, breath catching as Sonny nuzzles into his grasp.  

“Not what I’ve been thinking about, but okay.”

The sarcasm would have been more believable without Sonny’s attentive touches — a grip on his thigh, the flitting of his fingers over Barba’s inseam. The seemingly unconscious wetting of his lips in preparation for something Sonny hasn’t yet found the courage to ask for. Something Barba has no problem encouraging, even in the form of purposefully dense teasing.

“Oh?” he asks, the fingers of his right hand still threading through Sonny’s hair while the others drift to toy with his belt buckle. “Was there something else you had in mind?”

Sonny doesn’t bother answering, not when Rafael’s available hand is parting the clasp of his belt and toying at the button hidden beneath. He chooses instead to swat Rafael’s hand out of the way completely, taking control in a way that effectively communicated just how long this fantasy had been brewing in the back of his mind. The knowledge that this was something Sonny was dying for was almost hotter than the act itself, even as he watched his zipper part and Sonny’s slender fingers trace at the damp cloth restraining his hardened flesh.  

_Almost._

At least until he mouthed at him over the fabric, plush lips wrapping around the width of him and sucking. Gently at first, getting a sense for Barba’s body before he feels Barba’s hand on the back of his neck. Encouraging, answering Sonny’s question while posing one of his own. Sonny responds with the flick of his tongue under his clothed head, light but deadly accurate as Barba’s grip tightens and his knees threaten to buckle. It’s all the encouragement Sonny needs, surrendering Barba from his mouth only to peel the material down and away. His cock twitches up instantly, first at the cool air of the bar and then at the sight of Sonny’s eyes widening and his tongue sneaking out to wet his lips.  

Sonny takes him so well.

Permits the blunt head of his prick through lips still swollen from their kisses, tastes his slick as it wells to the top of his slit and spills over onto Sonny’s waiting tongue. Barba delights in the molten heat of Sonny’s mouth as he takes him in, groans against the pressure of Sonny hollowing his cheeks as he moves away. Sonny’s hands stay on Barba’s hips, the grip bruising as he works. Sonny swallows him down as though the act was for him alone, selfishly using Barba’s cock as a vehicle for his own pleasure. He’s forced to close his eyes against it, fingers tight in Sonny’s hair while he rocks back on his heels and tries not to come at the sight of Sonny’s strong shoulders flexing as he moves.  

Barba wants to come.

He wants to spill himself into Sonny’s mouth, wants to hear the pleased noises Sonny will surely make the first time Barba comes down his throat.

Later.

“Sonny,” he groans, thrusting forward even as the hand in Sonny’s hair starts to drag him away.  

Sonny follows willingly, breathing heavily. Barba’s eyes are drawn to the shine of saliva and precome trailing down the shallow cleft in his chin and does his best to burn the sight into his memory. Sonny, gasping in the faint gossamer light from the windows — eyes on Barba, his mouth dripping for more even as Barba denies him.

“Sit back,” he tells him and Sonny is slow to comply, the instructions fighting to get through the haze of arousal that hangs over his head. Finally he moves, leaning back against the couch with an expectant look. His eyes rake over Barba from head to toe, pausing at the thick swell of his cock. Still wet from Sonny’s mouth, still throbbing with the memory of it.  

Barba pushes that thought aside, determined to create memories of his own.

Namely, the memory of the way Sonny’s hips buck up at the slightest graze of his fingers over rigid line of his cock. The hungry gaze that darkens his eyes as Barba climbs on top of him, knees on either side of his hips. The sound Sonny makes the first time Barba wraps his fist around his flesh and gives a firm stroke upward, twisting around the head before sliding back down to the base.  

Sonny is a memory he wants to live in.

A home found in a single snapshot of time. Barba wants to stay forever in the way Sonny’s long arms wrap around his lower back, holding him close while he rolls his hips up into Barba’s. He could spend an eternity in the wet kisses pressed to his neck while he rides Sonny, slow and steady. An entire lifetime in the soft cries that slip from Sonny’s lips the first time Barba’s wraps his long  fingers around them both, slick with sweat and arousal.  

Barba’s not sure he was ever living at all.

Not before this.

Before the slow drag of their hardened flesh through his fist, before the hot gasps of Sonny’s breath into his mouth as they climb that peak together.  

Sonny’s hands can’t settle. They flit back and forth across most of Barba’s body. His hips, his ribs, his shoulders. His biceps as they flex and strain in the process of getting them both off. Sonny stays there the longest, fingers digging into the muscle while his eyes stayed glued on Barba’s.  

When he comes, Sonny feels it first.

Feels the minute pulls of muscle, the tension in Barba’s thighs as they tighten around his hips. The frown of concentration that interrupts their kiss as Barba threatens to lose rhythm. The vice of his fist as it closes tighter around them and the hard thrust of his hips as his eyes close and the first wave crashes over him.  

Sonny feels it as the wet rush of his release pours through his fingers, hot and slick as he glides against Sonny’s length. Faster, harder, with Sonny’s eyes trained at the sight of the two of them wrapped in Barba’s hand. Barba growls his way through it, worried less about the mess between them and more about the slack-jawed want on Sonny’s face. When he’s finished, when the rush of blood in his ears has calmed to a dull roar, he offers his hand to Sonny and hardly has time to watch before his fingers are encased in Sonny’s mouth. His clever tongue dips and curls and sucks the sticky mess from Barba’s hand.  

Barba doesn’t let him finish.

He pulls his hand back while it’s still wet, still streaked with come and saliva as he takes hold of Sonny again. This time with purpose, this time with the sole desire of watching Sonny come undone. Sonny trying to lift his hips with Barba still on top of him, almost succeeding. Sonny blinking fast, breathing hard. Sonny looking at him, awestruck, like the whole of Manhattan wasn’t lit up behind him and still Barba was the only thing worthy of staring at.  

Grip tight, heart pounding, Barba pumps him fast and hard. Hard enough that Sonny’s eyes threaten to roll back and his entire body starts to shake under him. Barba watches the line of Sonny’s throat while he swallows, tries to breathe deeper, and discovers yet another view better than the one behind him.  

Barba wants to tell him that.

Barba wants to tell him how goddamn gorgeous he is in that moment, hard in Barba’s hand and sharing his air while his hips rock and his stomach clenches and jumps. He wants to tell him that he’s wanted this since the moment he laid eyes on Sonny, that he wonders now how he ever managed to live without the promise of him at the end of the day. Even sluggish from his own orgasm, Barba can perfectly map the constellation of words that will bring Sonny off.

He doesn’t get to use them.

Because all it takes is one utterance of his name — one warm, raspy iteration of _Sonny_ — before the man goes rock hard in his fist and the first splatters of come well up under his grip. He watches, greedy, as thick white streaks the tight black material of his shirt. Sonny’s high, wanton cries are in his ear while his hands grip Barba’s shoulders. One ends up in Barba’s hair, the touch surprisingly gentle for someone whose body is otherwise taut to the point of breaking as he comes.  

When it’s over Sonny goes limp, breathing ragged in the silence.

Barba stands on shaky legs, tucking himself away as he turns and heads for the bar. The napkins Sonny gave him earlier for his drink are still on the bar, untouched. Rafael grabs a handful and walks back, admiring his handiwork as he moves.

Sonny sprawled, eyes on the ceiling while the city lights paint him like watercolors. Still half hard and twitching against his lower stomach, the deep V of his hipbones bare for Barba to see. The black Henley Barba has so admired the last few months now streaked with the evidence of their release.  

Another memory Barba locks away like treasure.  

He cleans them up slowly, carefully. Aware of the soft gaze aimed in his direction as he works, of the heaving breaths calming and the shaking hands steadying. Barba is able to crumble them in his grip before he’s being pounced on, Sonny pinning him back against the couch with the force of his kiss. Sucking, biting. Tongue curling against the roof of Barba’s mouth so intently Barba worried if Sonny would be ready to go again before he’d even had the chance to catch his breath. If he is, he has the decency to hide it. Sonny pulls away in another second or two, facing him with the brightest smile Barba’s ever seen.

"So," Barba starts, breathing heavy with Sonny's face an inch or two above his own.

Sonny grins.

"So."

"How about that drink?" Barba asks and is gratified with Sonny's loud laugh and another kiss.

"Somewhere other than here, though," Sonny says. "Hell, I'm going to have to find another job."

Barba looks up, surprised.

"What?” he asks. “Why?"

"I'm never going to be able to look over here ever again without getting a boner."

Barba barely avoids rolling his eyes.

"Fine. Just so long as you still serve my drinks," Barba allows, arching up off the couch to steal another kiss from Sonny’s open lips. "At my place, preferably. Naked, preferably. Arousal not required but definitely a plus."

Sonny nods.

"It's a date, Counselor."


End file.
